


Benevolence and Impossible Kindness

by ashen_key



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Clothed Sex, F/M, Hair Pulling, Hand Jobs, Massage, New Relationship, PIV, Sexual Content, Sexual Experimentation, Victors Have Issues, references to forced prostitution/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5021092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Annie can't, she's been working out over the past couple months, actually ask Finnick what he likes to do in bed. He either deflects or, when she insists, looks at her with a heartbreaking blankness. Her heart, not his, which makes her want to go ruin all those fancy Capitol folk he's gone out with, because what is <b>wrong with those assholes</b>- </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <i>At least running experiments on his body is fun for both of them.</i></p><div class="center">
  <p>OR</p>
</div>When a back-massage turns into something more, eventually fun experimentation hits one of Finnick's Capitol-given sexual hangups.<p>They work it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benevolence and Impossible Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Dorianne Laux's poem [2AM](http://theysaid.livejournal.com/1671836.html) (NSFW):
> 
>  
> 
> _I knew then_  
>  _I must be merciful, benevolent,_  
>  _impossibly kind._

“Come here.” 

Finnick finishes stretching his shoulder and glances over at her. Just to make her meaning clear, she shifts herself back on the bed.

“Shirt on or off?” He sounds amused.

“Off.” 

He doesn't say anything to that, not verbally. His reply is all physical: a quirk of his eyebrows, the way he tilts his head and strolls over while taking off his shirt in an arrogant tease, _yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am_. 

“No, no, sit in front of me, _there_ ,” Annie says, and settles her hands against his shoulders. “Now. Where's it hurting?” 

A week spent fishing snapper in the Gulf with a crew who'd adopted him meant that he'd turned up at Annie's doorstep looking better than he had in years. Nothing but hard, clean work under a hard, clean sun to chase the Capitol's demons and polish away. His golden-brown skin burned dark to make his grin bright and eyes impossible, auburn hair shot through enough sun-bleached strands that _bronze_ didn't seem quite so metaphorical a description. Finnick's _happy_. Glowing with it. And he missed her. 

Two things kept her grounded: the lingering smell of the Four's industry, and the way he keeps rolling his shoulder. 

A long shower had taken care of the former, and for the latter, Annie's going to work on it. And then she can luxuriate like a cat in the sun under the warmth of his gaze. 

Finnick is silent for a moment, and she keeps her hands steady against his skin. “A few places,” he admits. 

She hums a little and starts to press her thumbs in. “Okay. Tell me when I hit a knot.”

It doesn't take her long, even through the hardness of his muscles. She can feel the stiffness and knots of tension and strain, and she can hear his reaction: faintly hissed breath, long sighs of relief that are damn near moans. 

Sexy as anything. She's not doing this for sex, not intending to seduce or get her kicks. But the little sounds melt her anyway. 

Stupidly attractive _boy_. 

Stupidly attractive boy whose back needs a lot more care than she initially thought. 

“Hang on second,” Annie says, kissing the back of his neck and moving to crawl over her bed. He twists around, watches her as she leans over to her bedside table and pulls a bottle from her drawer. 

“It's not _that_ bad.” His voice is dry, a little self-deprecating. 

“Shush. Unless you wanna go get my cooking oil?” From downstairs, she doesn't have to add. She has an elevator, all the victors' mansions do, but hers is always misbehaving. And stairs are not forgiving on a body that's been hauling lines and gutting thousands of pounds of fish for days. 

Finnick makes a slightly sulky sound and settles back on the edge of her bed. 

_Yeah, that's what I thought, darling._

Normally, she uses the oil on herself. More than a year since her games, and her joints still haven't forgiven her for treading water for over a day. The oil helps. Nothing fancy, just sweet almond oil – except that _is_ fancy, to her. Fancy as anything, out here in the districts. 

Annie shakes her head, refocuses on the task at hand. Towels she keeps in the bedside table alongside the bottle, and her hair she twists out of her way. The bottle of oil she wraps in her hands to warm it, and as she waits, she rests her forehead against his spine. He runs hot, always has, and she can feel the way he moves when he breathes. Can smell him. Still the faintest touch of fish, but she's used to that. No perfume, which is odd but understandable. The rest of him is all Finnick. 

“Missed you,” she mumbles. 

“You, too.” Spoken with complete, almost helpless sincerity, and for that, he gets another kiss. 

“All right. Here we go.” The words are for him, because victors are twitchy and surprises are bad, and herself. Keep her mind from wandering. 

Fortunately, it doesn't take long for Finnick to be distracting. His second fishing trip since he was fourteen, and the first had only been a day before the second. Just enough time for the crew to unload their cargo and restock, enough time to get some sleep. Not enough time for muscles to relax from the sudden work instead of vanity-and-survival driven exercise. 

He's a beautiful man, and she loves touching him. Here, that's all she's doing. All she's focused on. Touching, massaging, exploring, testing. Fixing, when she finds the knots. Working the soreness out, providing relief from all the tension snarling him up. 

Finnick groans, mostly in relief but sometimes in pain, as she works her hands. Groans, and sighs, and sometimes gasps. Causing him pain makes her wince, but the groans in general? 

Those are making lust pool between her legs. Not enough to completely fog her mind, not enough for her to stop and ask, very sweetly, if she's allowed to fuck him senseless, but enough to make her feel warm and wanting. 

She concentrates on the task at hand: making Finnick not hurt. 

_Let me take care of you_ , Annie says with her hands. _Let me help_ , she adds with heel of her palm. _See, I'm making you feel better_ , and she drives her thumbs in hard circles and hopes, hopes, it does something. 

A physical ache like this, she can take care of. It's nothing like the darkness in his mind that threatens to drown him. All she can do then is talk to him, try not to let her helplessness bleed through. 

Here, with this, Annie can do something tangible. 

“There,” she says finally, smoothing her hands out against Finnick's back. “Feel better?”

He rolls his shoulder. She takes a moment to just enjoy it how it looks and feels, his muscles bunching and stretching under his now oil-slick skin. 

“ _Much_.” Finnick ducks his head a little to laugh ruefully. “I guess I forgot how tough actually working is.” 

“Mm, and of course you'd _never_ try and show off, or pretend that you've been hauling equipment for the last seven years,” she teases. 

“Nope. Not me.” He glances over his shoulder to grin at her, the expression somehow brilliant and lazy all at once. Then it changes, fades, turns more than a little speculative as his eyes lower from hers to her mouth. She's still learning how to read Finnick's actual bedroom expressions, but she thinks she knows this one: she leans him and kisses him. 

Given he reaches up to tangle his fingers in her hair and pull her closer as he kisses her back, she thinks she guessed right.

“Thank you, Annie,” he says, low and sincere in ways that make her fluttery and foolish.

“You're welcome,” she answers, deciding at the last minute that 'my pleasure' didn't sound right. It had been, though. Rubbing his sore shoulders and back. Hearing the sounds he made as she dug into the knots his muscles had kinked themselves into and smoothed them out. _Yes, thank you, any time, darling._

Finnick kisses her again, dirtier than before, but the position she's in is too awkward to keep it up. Reluctantly, Annie pulls back, trailing her mouth along his jaw as she moves, then dropping her mouth to his neck. 

The intent had been to kiss him until she was in a balanced enough position to move around to his lap, where she could kiss his mouth all over again, but the way he shivers as she kisses the side of his neck is...intriguing. 

She can't, she's been working out over the past couple months, actually ask Finnick what he likes to do in bed. He either deflects or, when she insists, looks at her with a heartbreaking blankness. Her heart, not his, which makes her want to go ruin all those fancy Capitol folk he's gone out with, because what is _wrong with those assholes_ \- 

At least running experiments on his body is fun for both of them.

Annie settles back down on her mattress and kisses his neck again in a different location. For the experiment to really be valid, she needs to restrain herself to changing only one variable at a time. All her fishery teachers would be so disappointed in her. But Finnick's half-naked on her bed, back glistening with oil as his breath starts to become deep and ragged, and she really can't keep her hands to herself. 

She trails her fingers down his spine, slides them around his chest, his stomach, glides them low and lower as she kisses his neck, licks and nips and sucks, noting all his reactions. Her methodology is hopelessly tangled – is that moan because she's just nipped him or because she's grinding the heel of her hand against his hardening erection? – but she's pretty damn sure that his whimpered ' _Annie_ ' is because she licked the skin just behind and below his ear. 

She licks him again, keeping her hand still. Another whimper, fainter than before, and he tilts his head back slightly. Giving her more access to his neck. Asking for more, more of that, please. 

She presses against him: mouth against his skin, chest against his back and she doesn't care about the oil on her blouse, it's an old garment and she can damn near **feel** Finnick melting in her arms as she presses back down against his erection, sliding her hand up and down. 

It's rare for Finnick to just let her do things like this to him. To just let her explore his body, pleasure him without him doing something in return. He can press his mouth between her legs and go pearl diving until she screams, but if she tries to return the favour... Aside from the first time, when he'd melted into a stunned, moaning mess, there'd been an edge of discomfort to him if she sucked him for too long. Then he'd pull away, distract her with something else. Until he worked out to grab her hair, pull it as she worked him with her mouth. Then, apparently, according to the rules in his brain, she's getting enough in return to submit and enjoy it. 

This, though. This with Finnick with his body slack and heavy against hers, his head tilted back, this is rare, and Annie's enjoying every second of it. 

She goes slow. Keeps her hand gliding as she shifts a little, trails kisses across the back of his neck to start nibbling the other side. Gets him settled again, long minutes of kissing and sucking and running the edge of her teeth down his skin. Then she carefully unbuckles his belt and undoes the top button on his trousers, opening his fly to slide her hand against the hard length of him, only the thin layer of his shorts between them. 

“Annie,” Finnick says, voice a breathless laugh.

She kisses him. “Want this?” Her voice is a lust-raspy whisper, betraying just how much she's enjoying herself.

“ _Yes._ ”

“Okay. Good.” 

She keeps her hand on him, just quick strokes as her other hand fumbles for the bottle of oil. Which she can't open one handed, damn. 

“I'll be back,” Annie says, and immediately starts to suck his neck again. Distract him. Short-circuit his warped sense of sexual responsibility so she can pour oil on her hands. Bottle lid back on, and this time, she trails both her hands down his body to his open fly. Fingertips only, not wasting anything. 

She pulls his shorts enough to free his cock and wraps her slick hands around him. Finnick's hips jerk forward at the contact and he whines. She sucks his neck, making her way down. She's leaving bruises in her wake, she knows, but she keeps it up until they settle into a new rhythm. 

Her hands slide and twist, and they are both slightly rocking with the movements. Tiny movements of his hips as he wants to just thrust up into her hands but is restraining himself. Bunching the towel under them in the process, but restraining himself. Her hands are occupied with him, she's got nothing to hold onto but him, and so her own hips just twitch. Roll, a little, because this is for him, this is all for him, but Finnick's groaning and whimpering her name and falling apart in her arms because of what she's doing to him, and that is all she can do to relieve the pressure building in her own body. It's not enough. She can feel his muscles flexing and shifting because she's pressed so damn close to his back, her nipples hard and aching from the contact through her blouse and breastband, and grinding against her bed is not even close to relieving anything. 

But this isn't for her. Just him. 

Except...

Except just as his breathing is getting into the hitching, whining phase, her right hand twinges. Painfully. Warningly. 

She ignores it. Ignores the growing cramp until it makes her suddenly hiss in pain, flinch back and curse.

“ _Fuck_ , I'm-”

“You okay?” Finnick's voice is heavy, rough, but the concern blazes through the arousal. 

“Yes, dammit, I'm so sorry. Hands crampin' up.” 

There's a pause, a silent beat only marred by their breathing. Then he laughs, low and growly. “ _Annie._ ” 

“Not like I did it on purpose-” She shuts up, because suddenly he's turned around and kissing her. Hard. Insistent. A bit out of control. His large hands are on her, forcing her back on the bed as he crawls forward and it's all awkward, messy. Needy, because she's kissing him back just as hard. She wants him, she wants him. All of him. Now. 

He's a large man, a fact which is now, abruptly, obvious. Tall for a District Four man, solid with muscle and twice her size. Big and present and here. Large hands. Large, elegant, lovely hands, currently busy under her skirt.

Yes. Yes. Good idea. Underwear _off_. 

“You're impossible,” Finnick says, all disbelieving adoration. Then he's hauling her onto his lap, guiding himself into her. She sinks onto him, drawing his cock in and groaning as he finally slides home. She's not the only one: Finnick curls into her, wrapping his arms around her and moaning against her neck as she moves. He keeps himself still; she has to move. Shift her legs because they've been folded up for too long, she has to untangle them, stop kneeling and curl her legs around him. Get the balance of her body on his right. Rub the cramp out her hand, shake it out. Rock against him because he's in her, finally, and she's wanted this, she loves the feel of him in her, and she's so damn wet all her movements are just slide and glide.

He lets her shift and adjust, fingers digging into her, and then, and only then, does he grab her. From stillness back to insistent, demanding lust, he grabs her ass and moves her. It's almost frantic to start with. Annie gasps and tries to grab his shoulders with hands still slick with oil. She winds up wrapping an arm around his shoulders to keep her balance. Keep her balance, something to brace herself against as she rocks her hips, trying to match his thrusts, trying to help. 

The angle's not great for it, which Finnick recognises before her. Experience or sexual frustration, some combination of all of the above, he mutters a curses, kisses her hard and has her on her back before she can catch her breath. 

He shoves his pants and undershorts down so they won't get tangled, too needy to actually take them off. Then he braces himself against her mattress, pulling himself back until only the tip of him is still in her.

She can guess at what he's going to do, but he's nearly out of her and he's just staring down at her with impossibly clear green eyes and she wants him. 

Annie whines, hooking her legs around his ass and trying to pull him closer. 

He grins.

“ _Please_ , Fin _nick_.” 

She curls a hand around his neck, pressing against one of her love-bites and sliding down. She can see when his control frays. His eyes glaze and glaze, his mouth parts and then snaps shut as his hips drive back against hers. It's hard and fast, from nearly nothing to all of him. He pulls back, and moves in again just as hard as the first time. Not claiming her, just needing her. Wanting her that badly, all his normal desires of lingering _love-making_ shredded to pieces under the urge to simply fuck her. Bury himself inside her, again and again. 

Annie encourages him. She keeps her legs hooked around him to haul him closer, and her hands slide all over him. Oil and sweat, their skin is slippery, demands nails to get a decent hold. She caresses him, twists her fingers in his thick hair, pulling his head down so they can kiss, however clumsy and sloppy until the demands of their rhythm force them to stop. 

And she moans. Occasionally swears, but mostly it's just entreaties. Encouragement. _Come on, Finnick, fuck me, please._

He does, until there's nearly nothing else in her concious mind but him and her and this. Him over her, driving into her like she's unbreakable, like she can take it and take him in. She can take it. She can take him. She wants all of him, all of this, she wants that frantic thrusting back instead of this steady-but-forceful pace. She wants him to lose all of his lovely, impossible control, she wants to **make** him lose that control. 

She wants, and everything in her is stretched out, taut and tight and aching. 

Finnick kisses her then, briefly, and rests his head against hers as their bodies roll towards each other. “Please,” he says, voice ragged. “I'm so close, for me, can you-”

No, she can't.

“After. C'mon. After, make me come after. It's okay, it's okay.” 

_Please give this to me, let me look after you first, please, Finnick._

Except he groans, not in a good way, and his hips slow. He doesn't stop, maybe he can't yet, but he slows down. “I _can't._ ” 

It's hard to think. She has to, but she's stupid with lust. Drunk on sex, swollen and raw and needy and she wants nothing more for him to keep fucking her. But she can't get off soon. Not like this. Not soon enough for him, and maybe she should argue the point but not when he's enveloped in her and sounding that damn lost. 

“Okay,” Annie breathes out, framing his face and kissing him. “I need. I need to be up. Hands and knees. Need to make me stop thinkin'.” 

Finnick kisses her back, all desperation, and it counts as a yes. 

He pulls her up, and for a moment, she sprawls against him. Kissing him, and he kisses her back. For a moment they can't quite manage a stop. She pauses to gasp for air, pulling her blouse off in the process, and goes back to kissing him, all open-mouthed and greedy. 

Then he grabs her hair. A big handful, right at the back of her neck, and he twists just enough to let her know he's got her. 

The twist sends a lightning-strike of pure arousal through her body, straight from her scalp to her core. 

“Stop thinking,” Finnick whispers, the next kiss heartbreakingly gentle.

“Yes,” she promises. Yes, she'll stop thinking. Yes, anything. 

He lets her go and she moves. Crawls over to her headboard and drops onto her hands and knees. She doesn't pull her skirt aside. It feels a bit too brazen, which is a stupid line, given the things she's done with Finnick, but until Finnick she'd had two boyfriends in Fishery Eight and a deckhand she'd fucked in a stairwell when she was seventeen and out of her mind due to surviving a hurricane. The boys in the fishery had been quick, because what was time, what was privacy. 

They'd never pulled her hair, except by accident, and she'd never had enough confidence to say that she'd liked it. They'd never taken her from behind. Never saw her with all her clothes off except once or twice. Never went down on her. Never drove her completely crazy, though she'd loved it when they shattered at her. Stopped being nice. Just filled with wa-

Finnick's fist is in her hair again. Another jolt of white-hot lust. 

_Stay with me_ , the gesture demands. _Stay here, stay with me, stop thinking, I've got you_. 

It sets off fireworks under her skin. Little fireworks. Warming up for the big ones, and Annie grabs the headboard with one hand. 

He lets go of her after another firm tug, runs his hand down her spine to her ass and then back up to her hip, dragging her skirt with it. Every brush of his fingers as he parts her, guides himself back in, makes her whimper. He's fast and sure but not fast and sure enough for her senses. Now. She wants him now. 

There. Yes. Thank you, but she's not given much of a chance to savour the relief. Finnick's got both her hips in his hands and pulls himself back. Then in, hard enough she gasps. And again. And again. 

A brief pause as he tilts her hips down, and she uses the pause to get a better grip. 

But her intention to push back against him as he thrusts in falters. He slides in and she can feel everything. All the heavy heat of him, every brush against her nerves. Fireworks. Fireworks in all her nerves, bright and sparking. 

Her gasp is harsh, high-pitched. “ _Finnick_.”

“Good?” Oh, fuck her, he sounds wrecked. 

“Yes. Yes.” 

Next time, she pushes back. Drawing him in further and it's better. Somehow. 

They move together, getting faster once they find the right tempo. Faster, Finnick leaning over to brace himself against her headboard, hand gripping the wood next to hers. His other hand is on her hip, fingers digging in, and she can feel him above her. Feel the occasional smack of his belt buckle against her thigh. 

Feel his teeth, when he bites the back of her shoulder, harsh pleasure-pain-pleasure radiating out. Her vision clouds over and all she can see is the dark wood of her bed, the faded apricot of her sheets, the red of her hair. Then nothing, because she has to close her eyes. Concentrate. It's too overwhelming to try and see. 

He needs her to come first, and it's the only thing that lets Annie gather herself enough to press her fingers to the pearl between her legs. She's close now, and just that makes her start to shake and she half-collapses, burying her face in her pillow but keeping her ass high. 

There. There. Close. So close. Her fingers move in hard, desperate circles as the rhythm of his hips falters, becoming frantic. Because he's lost all his control and she's done that to him, she can **feel** what she's done to him and that's what pushes her over. 

Fireworks go off behind her eyelids. Her body shakes from the waves and waves of that bright, hot rush rolling over her, tossing her about. Dimly, she's aware that she's burying a shriek in her pillow, that Finnick's groaning out her name. But for long moments, there's nothing but her orgasm filling her up, and filling her, and filling her because he's still moving in his own release and it's driving hers on. 

Finally, she lets her legs give out and he slumps on her, half pressing on her back and half on the bed. He's heavy, a hot weight made up of ridiculously long limbs drawing her in close, but she's too busy trying to gulp in enough air to move to a more comfortable position. 

“Fuck,” Annie breathes out. His chuckle is muffled, but smug. Very smug. Groaning, she rolls over in his embrace and he sprawls out over her. Head on her chest, his leg tangled with hers and arms around her. Cradling her, is what it looks like. 

She strokes his hair, and more accurately labels it: clinging to her. 

_I've got you_ , Annie silently says with her hands again. Gentle fingers in his hair, her other hand stroking his arm, his shoulder. _I've got you._

Finnick sighs, resettles himself. His hair is tickling her skin, and she knows without glancing down that his eyes are closed. She also knows better than to say anything, not just yet. 

Sometimes, after, he's affectionate. A lot of the time, after. Boyishly goofy and smug and adoring. But usually, sooner or later, he goes away somewhere in his head. He's distant, no matter the state of his body. 

This is sooner. She's not surprised, given his almost freak-out during everything. _I can't_ , he'd said. 

With the haze of lust and sex clearing, Annie believes him. 

They've hurt him, those bastards in the Capitol. The ones who've bought him (which can't be all of them, right?). Hurt him maybe worse than his games. Taken things from him, and sometimes she feels so guilty for enjoying what's left. His skill. That consideration of her, of making her feel good. But he'd have the latter without the awfulness, she's sure. He loves her. 

But. 

_I can't._

Annie sighs and shifts under Finnick's weight to rest her head against his. _One day_ , she promises him. One day, she'll have him feeling safe enough, secure enough, to have a moment of selfishness. To let himself just fall apart without immediately reciprocating, knowing she'll catch him, that she'll still love him, that it's _okay_. One day. She doesn't care if it takes her another year, another five. Another ten. Thirty years. 

One day. 

But for now, she hugs Finnick and strokes his hair and waits for him to come back to himself.


End file.
